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WITH 
THE    SEASONS 


BY 


MARY  AUGUSTA   MASON 

V 


NEW  YORK 

A.  D.  F.  RANDOLPH    COMPANY 
1897 


COPYRIGHT,  1897,  BY 
A.  D.  F.  RANDOLPH  COMPANY 


H.NKY  MORSE  STE1-HE* 


Press  of 
Jenkins* 
lew  York 


E.  O.Jenkins'  Son 

Ne 


TO 
BESSIE  VIRGINIA  DICKINSON, 

MY  DEAR  COMPANION  LOVER  OF  THE  WOOD  AND 

FIELD,  THIS  LITTLE  BOOK  IS 

TENDERLY  INSCRIBED 


514870 


U 


One  comes  with  violets  in  her  hands, 
And  one  with  roses  all  a-blow, 

With  golden  sheaves  another  stands. 
The  last  brings  as  her  gift — the  snow. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

FLORENCE  IN  SPRINGTIME I 

AM   I  READY 3 

THE  LAST  SNOWFALL 5 

HAD  I  WINGS 6 

'TIS  APRIL 7 

IN  SPRINGTIME 8 

AN  EMPTY  NEST IO 

WHEN  FRESH  BUDS  ARE  UPON  THE  BOUGHS      ...  II 

A  NEW  EARTH 13 

APRIL'S  LADY 14 

SINCE  LAST  I  HEARD  HIS  SONG l6 

MAY 17 

DANDELION  CURRENCY 19 

A  FLOWER  WITH  A  SOUL 2O 

LOVE   CALL  OF  THE  CHICKADEE 22 

SING,  MY  LADY,  SING 24 

TO  THE  WINDS  OF  JUNE 26 

HIGH-TIDE 27 

THE  HONEY-MOON 28 

THE  LOVE  OF  NATURE 30 

LADY  JUNE 31 

THE  SCARLET  TANAGER 32 

IN  SUMMER 34 

COBWEBS 35 


CONTENTS 


TO   DEPARTED  JUNE 37 

RED  CLOVER 40 

REPOSE 43 

O  SWEET,  SWEET  WORLD 44 

THE   RAIN-DOVE 45 

THE  PASSING  OF  SUMMER 47 

SEPTEMBER  TWILIGHT 48 

MOONLIGHT  IN  THE  AUTUMN   WOOD 49 

WINGS  AND  FLIGHTS SO 

IN  OCTOBER 51 

AN  AUTUMN  MORNING 53 

AFTER   THE   BALL 55 

A  NOVEMBER  EVENING 57 

A  BELATED  BLOSSOM 58 

A  PURSUIT 59 

THE  SEASON  OF   SILENCE 60 

A  COMPARISON 6l 

WINTER 62 

IN  THE  MORNING 63 

THE  PATIENT  SEASONS 65 

ITALIAN  WINTER 66 

WITH   THE   SEASONS 68 

IF   LOVE  WERE  LIFE 70 

AFTER  THE   PLAY 71 

MOONRISE 72 

LIFE 73 

TO  LOVE 74 

SLUMBER  SONG 76 

MY  MOTHER 78 

THE  SUSQUEHANNA 80 


CONTENTS  xi 


I  LOVE  YOU 8l 

IMMORTAL 82 

IN  THE   HOME  COUNTRY 84 

STARS  IN  THE  WELL 86 

PROMISES 88 

A  LOVE  SONG 89 

THREE  MINISTERING  ANGELS 91 

BEAUTY 93 

THE  COUNTRY  OF  FARAWAY 94 

VENICE 95 

ON  THE  HEIGHTS 97 

INFLUENCE 98 

OF  LOVE;  ' 99 

MORNING 100 

ONLY  THE  FEW IOI 

MY  LITTLE  LADY IO2 

BELLS  RING  NEVER  TWICE  THE  SAME 103 

THE  MOTHER-POET 105 

HUMAN  NATURE 107 

MY  LITTLE  NEIGHBOR IO8 

ON  THE  MOUNTAIN                                                                            .  no 


FLORENCE    IN   SPRINGTIME 


HO  would  not  Galileo  be 

In  springtime,  when  the  almond 

tree 

Is  fluttering   its   pink  snowflakes 
down, 

Inviting  banishment  from  town  ? 

I'd  gladly  seize  my  globe  and  chart 

And  for  those  hills  of  Florence  start, 

Did  any  Inquisition  see 

That  banishment  were  best  for  me ! 

The  Medici,  asleep  below, 

Would  not  be  more  at  home,  I  know. 

No  "  star  tower  "  would  confine  me  there  ; 

Out  in  the  soft  Italian  air 

I  should  discover  at  my  feet 

Small  worlds  that  make  the  large  one  sweet ; 

Through  glowing  fields  I'd  lead  the  bees 

In  search  of  fragrant  Pleiades ; 


FLORENCE   IN   SPRINGTIME 


Each  stone  would  testify  anew 
Of  lambs  the  little  Giotto  drew ; 
Each  path  would  lead  to  some  calm  height 
That  keeps  the  Arno  still  in  sight. 
And  if,  forgetting  it  was  day, 
The  nightingale  should  start  his  lay, 
And  mocking-bird  sing  east  and  west 
To  lead  me  further  from  his  nest, — 
Among  those  hills  where  magic  Spring 
Experiments  with  leaf  and  wing, 
Where  dews  from  bluest  skies  fall  free 
On  freshly  opened  worlds  for  me, — 
Who  would  not  Galileo  be ! 


AM   I   READY 


AM    I    READY 

|M  I  ready,  am  I  ready  for  the  Spring  ? 
Who  have  no  buds  to  bloom,  no 

songs  to  sing, 
No  answer,  should  I  hear  a  silvery 

call, 
But  just  a  great  warm  loving  for  it  all. 

How  fresh  the  picture  in  the  hill-set  frame  ; 
Untravelworn  the  songsters  when  they  came  ; 
The  south  winds  kind  as  though  they  had  not 

blown 
With  blasting  fury  from  a  frozen  zone. 


How  quickly  are  the  winters  all  forgot 
At  sight  of  one  small,  shy  forget-me-not ! 
How  many  springs  that  bird  on  yonder  tree 
Can  sing  back  to  the  hearts  of  you  and  me  ! 


AM   I   READY 


I  wonder  if  the  robin  knows  how  sweet 
That  little  tuft  of  violets  at  his  feet, 
Or  if  those  winsome  blossoms  are  aware 
Of  all  that  rapture  borne  upon  the  air. 

Such  alchemy  in  spring's  prismatic  rain, 
That  all  the  fields  are  young  and  glad  again  ; 
Each  flower  its  old-time  pattern  loves  to  use, 
The  bee  no  longer  hunts,  but  has  to  choose. 

Dear  bluebird  sky  and  song-enchanted  air ! 
Dear  minstrel  brooks  that  wander  everywhere ! 
Dear  earth  to  keep  such  sweet  things  in  your 

heart 
And  never  let  a  bud  too  early  start ! 

Dear  every  sight  and  every  sound  I  hear, 
That  makes  the  earth  so  glad  a  place  each 

year; 

One's  soul  goes  out  in  eager  questioning, 
O  am  I  ready,  ready  for  the  Spring  ? 


THE   LAST   SNOWFALL 


THE   LAST   SNOWFALL 


HERE'S  been  a  snowfall  of  forget- 
me-nots, 
For  yonder   hills   are   white   this 

morn  T  see  ; 

It  drifted  down  last  night  mysteriously, 
And  melted  everywhere  save  in  these  spots. 
The  fleecy  clouds  looked  conscious  of  such 

plots, 
And  when  the  south  winds  came  along  so 

free 

And  shook  the  buds  awake  upon  the  tree, 
And  in  a  frolic  whisked  across  the  lots, 
We   straightway  were   prepared   to   see  new 

sights 
And  hear  new  sounds  when  morn  broke  on 

our  ken  ; 
For  who  can  but  accept  when  Spring  invites  ? 

Ah,  surely  not  the  bluebird  and  the  wren; 
The  air  is  filled  with  twitters  and  soft  flights, 
And,  lo,  the  dew  is  on  the  grass  again  I 


HAD   I   WINGS 


HAD    I   WINGS 

ERE  it  springtime    and  had  I  the 

choosing 

Of  wings  to  go  whither  I  would, 
Not  a  moment  of  time  I'd  be  los- 


ing 
In  making  my  choice  understood. 

I  love  them  all — phoebe  and  bluebird, 
Song-sparrow  and  robin  red-breast  ; 

But  there's  one  golden-belted  wee  fellow 
I  envy  above  all  the  rest. 

He  does  little  wooing  in  public, 
He  spends  little  time  in  the  tree ; 

But  he  finds  the  first  bank  of  arbutus, 
So  I'll  beg  for  the  wings  of  the  bee. 


TIS  APRIL 


'TIS    APRIL 

HERE'S  a  thrush  in  the  thicket,  'tis 

April  I  know — 
There  are  signs  of  her  presence 

wherever  I  go ; 
There's  gold  on  the  willows  and  blue  in  the 

sky, 

And  pink  where  the  snowdrifts  of  arbutus  lie  ; 
There's  red  on  the  maples  and  color  to  spare — 
Each  bud  is  awake  and  awaiting  its  share. 
The  butterflies  know  it  is  time  for  their  wings, 
Through  the  mists  there  are  hints  of  invisible 

things, 
And  on  through  the  meadows  and  over  the 

hill 

Sweet  April  is  calling  her  followers  still ; 
Her  footprints  are  violets,  her  breath  is  the 

air, 

And  her  speech  is  the  singing  of  birds  every- 
where. 


IN   SPRINGTIME 


IN    SPRINGTIME 

HE  air  is  blue  with  the  bluebird 

wings, 
And  sweet  with   the  bluebird 

calls, 

The  trees  are  the  bluebird  palaces, 
And  the  earth  their  vernal  halls. 


An  incense  hangs  over  shrub  and  tree, 
And  the  blue  eyes  in  the  grass 

Look  up  in  violet  surprise 
To  see  the  white  clouds  pass. 


The  golden  disks  of  the  dandelions 

Send  out  their  flower  rays, 
And  the  daffodils,  with  their  dainty  frills, 

Spring  up  in  the  garden  ways. 


IN   SPRINGTIME 


The  clannish  innocence  blooms  white 

Upon  the  peaceful  hills  ; 
A  butterfly  has  found  its  wings 

And  flutters  where  it  wills. 

And  the  brook  that  ceased  last  year  to  flow, 

And  never  a  word  has  said, 
Once  more  starts  out  on  its  stony  way, 

By  sweet  remembrance  led. 

And  something  rare,  with  a  red,  red  breast, 

Is  building  a  nest  outside, 
And  I  hear  a  song  that  I  heard  last  year, 

Ere  the  flowers  drooped  and  died — 

A  song  that  only  a  bird  can  sing, 

A  song  of  a  robin,  too, 
A  song  of  hope,  a  song  of  Spring, 

A  song  he  has  kept  for  you. 


10  AN   EMPTY   NEST 


AN   EMPTY   NEST 

HEN  Spring  comes  to  seek  her  own 

Do  they  all  rise  at  her  words  ? 
Is  the  little  fledgeling's  tone 

Sweet  as  was  the  parent  bird's  ? 
When  once  more  the  streamlets  roam 
Do  the  robins  all  come  home  ? 

Here's  a  nest  upon  a  bough, 

But  there  comes  no  bird  to  claim ; 

Has  she  made  a  new  nest  now  ? 
If  from  some  far  land  we  came 

We  should  all  the  home  nest  know, 

Even  were  it  filled  with  snow. 

There  are  blue  eyes  that  we  miss 

In  the  flush  of  violet  time  ; 
In  a  world  so  sweet  as  this 

Still  are  bells  that  do  not  chime  ; 
In  the  heart  are  many  spots 
Sacred  to  forget-me-nots. 


WHEN  FRESH  BUDS  ARE  UPON  THE  BOUGHS    II 


WHEN   FRESH   BUDS   ARE   UPON 
THE  BOUGHS 


F  all  the  days  I  love  most  these, 
When   fresh   buds   are   upon   the 

boughs, 
When  happy  builders  haunt  the 

trees 
And  earth  is  tuneful  with  their  vows. 


Deep  in  the  woods  my  way  I  take 
To  see  how  some  shy  woodlings  fare, 

Though  all  the  gladdening  meadows  make 
Sweet  overtures  to  keep  me  there. 

Titania's  fairy  following 

Finds  shadow  here  but  never  gloom  ; 
The  last  brown  leaf  takes  gladly  wing 

To  give  the  new  year's  children  room. 


12    WHEN  FRESH  BUDS  ARE  UPON  THE  BOUGHS 

Here  lichen  goblets  lift  for  dew, 
And  ferns  uncurl  and  petals  ope, 

And  where  a  bit  of  sky  peeps  through 
The  blue  hepatica  takes  hope. 

The  bugler  thrush,  at  sunset's  flood, 
His  silvery  changes  over  rings, 

And  to  this  crown  of  greening  wood 
Is  faithful  as  returning  springs. 

Here  speech  is  bloom  and  speech  is  song ; 

And  when  Diana's  bow  is  bent 
In  evening  skies,  a  merry  throng 

Holds  fete  within  the  leafy  tent. 

The  stars  and  moon  look  through  the  trees 
But  learn  no  secrets  of  the  wood — 

The  birds  and  fairies  hold  the  keys 
And  keep  their  tryst  with  Robin  Hood. 


A  NEW  EARTH  13 


A   NEW   EARTH 

OME  mystic  hand  unlocks  the  icy 

gates ; 
Once  more  through  happy  fields 

the  blue  veins  run, 
While  with  expectant  hearts  come  one  by 

one 

The  robins  to  make  ready  for  their  mates  ; 
A  momentary  hush,  as  Spring  awaits 
A  further  signal  from  the  watchful  sun, 
And  from  the  old  a  new  earth  is  begun. 
A  memory  in  each  flower  again  creates 
A  likeness  of  itself.     The  same  sweet  thrill 

Stirs  in  each  bird-breast  the  desire  to  sing; 
And  heaven  once  more  the  cup  of  earth  to  fill 

Bends  lightly  over  with  unwearied  wing  ; 
In  shining  companies  by  rock  and  rill 
Rise  up  the  lovely  followers  of  the  Spring. 


14  APRIL  S   LADY 


APRIL'S   LADY 


N  her  blue  eyes'  misty  depths 

Saw  I  something  more  than  she 
Would  allow,  and  cloudy  lids 
Shut  the  blue  skies  then  from 

me. 


But  a  warm  desire  to  look 
Into  longing  eyes  upturned, 

Parts  the  clouds,  and  there  I  see 

That  for  which  my  soul  has  yearned. 

Forth  with  hesitating  step 
Comes  this  gentle  lady  fair, — 

All  the  world  her  lover  is, 

Yet  to  claim  her  none  would  dare. 

Smiles  she  on  them  all  alike, 
Giveth  each  to  her  his  best ; 

Happy  lady !  happy  world ! 
Love  returned  with  interest. 


APRIL'S  LADY 


This  is  she,  the  Spring's  first  love, 
With  the  tender  flower  face, 

Coming  out  of  troubled  skies, 
Coming  to  a  troubled  place, — 

With  the  violets  in  her  eyes, 
The  arbutus  on  her  breast ; 

First  of  all  thy  lovely  train, 
April's  lady,  thou  art  best ! 


l6  SINCE  LAST   I   HEARD   HIS  SONG 


SINCE  LAST  I  HEARD  HIS  SONG 


HERE   has   he  been   since   last  I 

heard  his  song, 
The    long    and     dreary    winter 

months  between  ? 

A  month  of  bird-life  many  years  must  mean, 
So   sweet   each   hour  on   light   wings  borne 

along. 

Now,  standing  forth  from  all  the  happy  throng 
That  rise  from  earth  and  from  the  heavens 

lean, 

My  red-breast  of  past  years  again  is  seen  ; 
And  in  and  out  between  the  rafters  strong 
Short  flights  of  wing  the  busy  builder  takes, 

Did  some  one  learn  to  love  him  as  I  do, 
In  those  long  absences  the  winter  makes  ? 
And  does  she  keep  for  him  her  young  heart 

true 

Until  the  Spring  for  her  again  awakes  ? — 
Then  lover  of  my  bird,  love  I  thee  too  ! 


MAY  17 


MAY 

HEAD  full,  a  heart  full,  a  soul  full 

of  May ! 
Can   one   have  too  much  of  it? 

Never,  I  say. 

To  think  of  its  being  around  the  whole  sphere, 
And  still  enough  left  for  a  sample  next  year. 

One  longs  to  have  wings  to  keep  up  with  the 

train 
That  flushes  the  mountain  and  dapples  the 

plain  ; 
In  primrose-laned  England,  where  twilights 

are  long 
And  the  nightingale  holds  his  sweet  sessions 

of  song ; 

In  Dante's  land,  too,  by  that  old  Southern  sea 
Where  Spring  first  was  conscious  how  fair  she 

could  be ; 


18  MAY 

And  on  to  Japan,  where  the  spiced  breezes 

lift 

The  cherry- tree  blooms  in  a  frolicsome  drift. 
Anywhere,  everywhere,  out  'neath  the  blue, 
We  may  in  a  vision  see  all  things  made  new  ; 
Where'er  fancy  leads  us  the  charm  is  the  same, 
And  the  East  and  the  West  might  be  called 

by  one  name. 


DANDELION   CURRENCY  19 


DANDELION   CURRENCY 


HAT  care  I  for  paper  or  silver, 

When  I  can  have  plenty  of  gold, 
And  draw  from  each  bank  in  the 

springtime 
More  wealth  than  my  coffers  can  hold ! 

All  ye  who  have  taste  for  the  meadows, 
Why  stay  in  the  turbulent  towns  ? 

Here  are  riches  and  comfort  in  plenty — 
A  mint  overflowing  with  crowns ! 

They  are  current  the  selfish  world  over, 
And  none  need  be  poor  any  more  ; 

I'm  so  rich  that  I  leave  the  gold  blossoms 
To  tarnish  and  fade  at  my  door. 

Earth  is  ready  for  all  her  partakers, 
Each  cell  with  its  honey  is  filled  ; 

Here  are  the  gold  streets,  and  the  mansions 
Are  waiting  for  some  one  to  build. 


20  A   FLOWER  WITH   A   SOUL 


A  FLOWER  WITH  A  SOUL 

VERY  springtime  forth  I  go 

Searching  for  this  spirit-flower  ; 
For  who  knows  but  it  may  grow, 

After  some  inviting  shower, 
With  the  blossoms  by  the  stream, 
Just  to  see  how  earth  would  seem  ? 

No  one  yet  has  ever  found 

Such  a  flower,  I  am  told  ; 
But  if  thus  the  frozen  ground 

Lives  of  violets  can  hold 
And  the  frail  anemones, — 
It  might  harbor  one  of  these. 

Will  it  blossom  white  or  blue  ? 

Will  it  meek  and  modest  grow  ? 
Or,  with  perfume  that  is  new, 

Like  a  stately  lily  blow  ? 
Will  it  bear  some  sacred  name 
Of  the  land  from  whence  it  came  ? 


A   FLOWER  WITH   A   SOUL  21 

Loving  quiet  ways  the  best, 

Answering  some  plaintive  word, 

It  may  grow  beside  the  nest 
Of  a  shy,  brown  mother-bird, — 

And  the  little  birds  below 

Be  the  only  ones  to  know. 


22      LOVE  CALL  OF  THE  CHICKADEE 


LOVE  CALL  OF  THE  CHICKADEE 


F  I  had  two  wings  and  a  song  and 

feather 

I  should  certainly  fly  away 
To   him,  when  he  calls  in   the  soft 

spring  weather 
His  sweet  "  Come  play !"  "  Come  play !" 

Just  as  soon  as  the  brook  goes  rushing 
Down  the  glen  like  a  restless  fay, 

Out  from  his  heart  the  song  comes  gushing 
To  all  "  This  way !"  "  This  way !" 

He  knows  quite  well  when  the  buds  are  swell- 
ing? 

And  when  the  robin  has  come  to  stay, 
And  all  good  news  he  is  first  in  telling 

With  his  "  To-day  !"  "  To-day !" 


LOVE  CALL   OF  THE   CHICKADEE  23 

He  gave  a  hint  of  the  glad  times  coming 
While  yet  the  snows  on  the  hillside  lay  ; 

Now  birds  go  wooing  and  bees  go  humming, 
He  sings,  "  In  May !  "    "  In  May !  " 


SING,   MY   LADY,   SING 


SING,  MY  LADY,  SING 


ING,  my  lady,  sing ! 

Life  is  sweet  in  spring — 
Wooing' s  in  the  very  air, 
Love  for  all  and  some  to  spare, 

Sing,  my  lady,  sing ! 


Sing,  my  lady,  sing ! 

Love  is  on  the  wing  ; 

He  will  pause  a  moment  here 
In  the  first  flush  of  the  year, 

Sing,  my  lady,  sing ! 


Sing,  my  lady,  sing ! 

Time  will  trouble  bring  ; 

Love  is  young  and  constant  now, 
He  will  keep  awhile  his  vow, 

Sing,  my  lady,  sing ! 


SING,   MY   LADY,   SING  25 

Sing,  my  lady,  sing ! 
Youth  is  everything — 

Love  and  hope  and  joy  and  song  ; 

Sing,  for  youth  will  not  stay  long, 
Sing,  my  lady,  sing! 


26  TO  THE  WINDS  OF  JUNE 


TO   THE   WINDS   OF   JUNE 

LOW  gently,  Winds  of  June  !    Each 

downy  nest 
Is  full  of  unsung  songs  and  un- 

spread  wings 
That  will  respond  to  patient  hoverings  ; 
Soft  rockings  suit  the  rustic  cradles  best. 

Blow  gently,  Winds  of  June!      The  bud  is 

here 
That   soon   will   be   transformed    into   the 

rose, 

The  sweetest  miracle  that  nature  knows ; 
A  breath  might  mar  the  beauty  of  the  year. 

So  easily  the  song  drops  out  of  tune, 
So  eagerly  the  sun  absorbs  the  dews, 
So  quickly  does  the  rose  its  petals  lose, 

That,  for  their  sakes,  blow  gently,  Winds  of 
June! 


HIGH-TIDE 


HIGH-TIDE 

HE  high-tide  of  the  year  has  come 

at  last  ; 
From  their  mysterious  deeps  the 

waves  of  white 
And  pink  and  green  are  breaking  on  our 

sight ; 

The  airy  cloud-ships  slowly  sailing  past, 
Light  shadows  on  the  shimmering  orchards 

cast; 

With  fragrant  overtures  the  trees  invite 

Robin  and  oriole  to  stay  their  flight — 

Amid  the  leaves  their  homes  to  anchor  fast. 

Then  comes  the  full,  delicious  rise  and  fall 
Of  night  and  morn  ;  and  dreamy  twilights 
fill 

The  soul  like  sweet  responses  to  a  call ; 

Where  once  were  roses  there  are  roses  still ; 

The  earth  must  pattern  after  her  old  ways 

As  long  as  there  are  Junes  and  summer  days. 


28  THE   HONEY-MOON 


THE   HONEY-MOON 

HEN  the  clover's  in  its  prime, 
Then's    the     sweetest     marriage- 
time. 

They  the  longest  honey-moon 
Have  who  marry  now  in  June, 
When  the  earth's  been  wooed  and  won, 
And  the  summer's  just  begun  ,- 
When  the  daylight  loves  to  stay, 
And  steals  half  the  night  away ; 
And  the  moonbeams  shine  so  deep 
That  there  seems  no  time  for  sleep ; 
When  the  air  throbs  with  the  gush 
Of  the  silver-throated  thrush, 
And  the  soil  has  felt  the  thrill 
And  bursts  into  bloom  at  will, 
Imitating  every  shade 
That  the  skies  have  ever  made  ; 
When  the  perfume,  songs  and  light, 
Earth's  fulfillment  of  her  plight, 


THE  HONEY-MOON  29 

Steal  into  the  human  heart, 
Making  all  the  love-chords  start 
Into  harmonies  so  sweet 
That  there  seemeth  no  retreat 
But  to  sing  and  blossom,  too, 
Just  as  birds  and  flowers  do. 


30  THE  LOVE  OF  NATURE 


THE   LOVE   OF   NATURE 

|OW  generous   Nature   is   to    those 

who  show 
A    sympathy  with    her!       How 

every  breeze 
Seems  a  caress !  How  all  the  shrubs  and  trees 
Put   on    their    tenderest   green,   and   flowers 

blow, 

And  even  birds  and  insects  seem  to  know 
Your  heart  and  strive,  each  in  its  way,  to 

please ! 

The  birds  build  at  your  door,  the  honey-bees 
Are  sure  of  finding  sweets  where'er  you  go — 
Since  every  rose  will  blossom  at  its  best 

For  those  who  have  the  rose's  love  within. 
The  heart  that  blesses  others  will  be  blest ; 
The  lives  that  look  for  blossoms,  blossoms 

win  ; 

The  love  of  birds  will  build  a  song-bird's  nest 
Upon  a  bough  where  winter  snows  have 
been. 


LADY  JUNE  31 


LADY  JUNE 

ADY  of  the  sky  and  sea, 
Lady  of  the  wood  and  lea — 
Lady  June. 


See  her  springing  from  the  grass ! 

See  her  smiling  from  the  sky ! 
Watch  her  back  and  forward  pass 

As  the  little  winds  go  by ! 
Hear  her  singing  in  the  wood! — 

Tis  a  lady — not  a  thrush  ; 
Who  else  with  such  sweetness  could 

Crown  a  prickly  rose's  bush  ? 

It  is  Lady  June,  my  dear ; 
All  the  little  birds  we  hear 

Sing  her  praises,  Lady  June ; — 
Careful  where  each  foot  is  set, 
It  can  feel,  the  mignonette, 

And  take  flight,  the  Lady  June. 


32  THE  SCARLET  TANAGER 


THE  SCARLET  TANAGER 

FLAME  went  flitting  through  the 

wood ; 

The  neighboring  birds  all  under- 
stood 

Here  was  a  marvel  of  their  kind  ; 
And  silent  was  each  feathered  throat 
To  catch  the  brilliant  stranger's  note, 
And  folded  every  songster's  wing 
To  hide  its  sober  coloring. 

Against  the  tender  green  outlined, 
He  bore  himself  with  splendid  ease, 
As  though  alone  among  the  trees. 
The  glory  passed  from  bough  to  bough — 
The  maple  was  in  blossom  now, 
And  then  the  oak,  remembering 
The  crimson  hint  it  gave  in  spring, 
And  every  tree  its  branches  swayed 
And  offered  its  inviting  shade  ; 


THE  SCARLET  TANAGER  33 

Where'er  a  bough  detained  him  long, 
A  slender,  silver  thread  of  song 
Was  lightly,  merrily  unspun. 
From  early  morn  till  day  was  done 

The  vision  flitted  to  and  fro. 
At  last  the  wood  was  all  alone ; 
But,  ere  the  restless  flame  had  flown, 
He  left  a  secret  with  each  bough, 
And  in  the  Fall,  where  one  is  now, 

A  thousand  tanagers  will  glow. 


34  IN   SUMMER 


IN  SUMMER 

HAT  can  one  do  in  summer  when 

the  world 

Has  all  her  banners  of  delight  un- 
furled, 

When  pleasure  beckons  us  a  thousand  ways, 
Or  folds  her  wings  and  close  beside  us  stays  ? 
Afar  and  near  is  something  rare  and  sweet ; 
Upon  the  grass  the  print  of  Beauty's  feet ; 
At  every  turn  a  picture  ;  some  glad  notes 
Sung  first  for  us  from  newly  conscious  throats ; 
A  glory  in  the  sunshine  ;  by  the  streams  - 
Soft  cadences  invite  and  blend  with  dreams ; 
Out  in  the  fields  the  honey-hunters  go  ; 
Over  the  heights  the  merry  breezes  blow  ; 
Up  in  the  sky  some  mystic  signs  are  set — 
The  earth  has  never  failed  to  read  them  yet ; 
And  as  the  year  rejoices  in  her  prime, 
The  happiest  thing  to  do  in  summertime 
Is  on  some  mossy  bank  content  to  lie 
And  watch  the  changes  in  the  earth  and  sky. 


COBWEBS  35 


COBWEBS 

WONDER  if  you 

Can  tell  me  who 

Stole  down  last  night  through  the 

dark  and  dew, 
And  wove  such  queer 
Little  patterns  here, 
And  fastened  them  firm  to  each  grassy  spear. 

And  here  and  there 

On  the  fences  bare, 
These  filmy  laces  are  wrought  with  care  ; 

Strung  with  diamond  dew 

Every  morning  new, 

They   sparkle   and   gleam   as   the   sun  looks 
through. 

Is  each  silken  net 
For  some  fairy  set, 
Who  stayed  too  late  at  the  moonlight  fete  ? 


36  COBWEBS 


And  caught  within 
For  his  elfin  sin, 
Must  he  weave  each  delicate  web  again  ? 

Could  we  see  aright, 

Every  moonlight  night 
Are  the  fairy  looms  and  hands  in  sight ; 

When  the  East  is  rose, 

Every  fairy  knows 
That  his  task  is  done  and  he  homeward  goes. 


TO   DEPARTED  JUNE  37 


TO  DEPARTED  JUNE 


OT  hours  enough  in  all  those  pleas- 
ant days 
To  give  expression  to  the  joy  you 

felt; 

Like  some  rare  spirit  in  our  world  you  dwelt, 
Then  like  a  spirit  sought  some  happier  ways. 

A  few  fair  roses,  lying  on  your  breast, 

Still  bloom  in  sweet  remembrance  of  that 

time 
When  roses  and  the  year  were  in  their  prime; 

And  still  the  sun  sinks  late  into  the  West. 

The  summer  lilies,  too,  are  now  in  bloom, 
But  they  are  pale  and  bowed  with  secret  woe 
For  some  glad  time  they  came  too  late  to 
know  ; 

Thus  even  in  the  sunshine  there  is  gloom. 


38  TO   DEPARTED  JUNE 

The  birds  have  flown  their  nests,  they  quickly 

learn 

To  soar,  and  yet  I  doubt  if  flying  brings 
The  peace  they  felt  beneath  their  mother's 

wings ; 

You  would  not  know  your  own  should   you 
return. 


The  hills  fade  in  a  quiet  mist  away, — 
Who  knows  but  you,  dear  June,  still  linger 

there 
In  answer  to  some  faithful  lover's  prayer, 

And  seem  through  pity  half  inclined  to  stay. 

The  moon  has  made  her  weary  round  once 

more, 
And  sends  weird  shadows  through  the  woods 

to  learn 

If  you  are  hiding  there,  but  leaf  and  fern 
Breathe  only  of  a  blessing  gone  before. 

The  river  takes  a  slower,  calmer  pace, 

The  brook  has  lost  its  happy,  buoyant  bound, 


TO  DEPARTED  JUNE  39 

Less  sweetness  seems  to  thrill  through  every 

sound, 
And  some  rare  light  is  missed  from  every  place. 

Without  are  all  things  changed,  within  the  soul 
Are  changes,  too,  that  have  been  wrought  by 

June; 
We've  listened  to  a  strain  of  perfect  tune, 

And  now  our  spirits  long  to  hear  the  whole ! 


40  RED   CLOVER 


RED  CLOVER 

OU  are  the  pride  of  the  meadow,  red 

"  clover! 
Where   you   are  blooming    there 

surely  old  Rover 
Knows   the  slow  kine   always   wait   to   be 

driven; 
This  morning   they  meekly  passed   out 

through  the  gate, 
This  evening  both  they  and  old  Rover  are 

late- 
Red  clover,  just  see  all  the  trouble  you've 
given ! 

Was  it  some  friend  you  were  harboring  under 
Your  clustering  leaves,  that  just   trebled  its 

wonder 

To  see  you  fold  up  your  green  leaves  with- 
out warning, 


RED   CLOVER  4! 

And  bow  your  sweet  blossom-face  down 

out  of  sight, 
Lest   the  dew  catch  the  red  from  your 

cheeks  in  the  night, 
And  the  sun  be  displeased  when  he  comes 

in  the  morning  ? 


The  honey  bees  say  you  are  close  with  your 

honey ; 
They  can't  get  a  drop,  and  what  seems  very 

funny 
The  bumblebee,  with  his  long  nose,  can  get 

plenty ; 
So  he  bumbles  around,  like  a  great  clumsy 

elf, 

All  the  red  clover  honey  he  has  to  himself, — 
Just  now,  buzzing  by  with  his  load  of  sweets 
went  he. 


But  here  come  the  cows  and  old  Rover ! — be- 
hind him 

The  boy  who  was  sent  to  the  pasture  to  find 
him. 


42  RED  CLOVER 


Good-night  to  the  pasture,  and  to  you,  red 

clover; 

'Tis  time  for  us  all  to  be  wandering  home, 
The  time  of  the  twilight  and  starlight  has 

come, 
And  the  time  for  the  bees  to  get  honey  is  over. 


REPOSE  43 


REPOSE 

HE  clouds  have  thrown  long  golden 

anchors  out 
To  reach  the  fastnesses  among  the 

hills 

That  purple  rise  and  hem  the  blue  sea  in  ; 
Upon  its  azure  tablets  has  the  sun 
Writ   his  last    message.      Birds   forget   their 

quest, 
And  hearts  their  trouble ;   flowers  cease  to 

fade  ; 

Fear  has  been  lost  and  the  keen  sense  of  hope 
Been  dulled  a  little  through  what  promises 
To  be  the  eve  of  a  fulfillment  sweet ; 
Sleep  draws  the  curtains  of  that  other  land, 
Then  works  a  charm  to  blind  the  vision  there  ; 
While,  like  a  ghost  of  the  departed  sun, 
The  moon  steals  spirit-like  upon  the  world, 
And  just  as  silently  the  azure  sea 
To  silver  turns,  and  the  tired  earth  forgets 
It  ever  was,  or  it  must  be  again. 


44  O  SWEET,   SWEET   WORLD 


O   SWEET,   SWEET  WORLD 


sweet,  sweet  world,  were  I  a  bee, 
And  such  delights  were  offered  me, 
From  morn  till  eve  I'd  spread  my 

wings 

And  hover  o'er  the  fragrant  things, 
And  never  miss  a  single  bloom, 
But  carry  homeward  in  the  gloom 
My  load  of  sweets  and  hoard  it  so 
My  golden  cells  would  overflow  ! 

Each  cup  should  bear  a  magic  name 
To  tell  me  whence  the  honey  came ! 
"Arbutus,"  4< clover,"  "violet," 
"  Azalea,"  "  pink,"  and  "  mignonette  "— 
And  other  flowers  we  love  to  see 
And  that  are  sweet  to  man  and  bee  ; 
When  winter  comes  at  home  I  then 
Would  live  the  summer  o'er  agaip, 


THE   RAIN-DOVE  45 


THE    RAIN-DOVE 

HEN  the  clouds  have  gathered  deep 

O'er  the  languid  summer  sky, 
And  the  breeze  has  gone  to  sleep, 
To  be  wakened  by  and  by  ; 


From  the  wood  I  hear  the  call 
Of  the  rain-dove,  as  from  some 

Spirit  that  has  lost  its  all 
And  with  grief  is  overcome. 


And  the  weird,  unbirdlike  notes, 

Heard  at  lonely  times  and  long, 
Seem  to  still  the  other  throats 

That  have  throbbed  with  happy  song  ; — 
Never  call  to  brooding  mate, 

Silent  all  the  wood  as  though 
Bluebird,  thrush,  and  robin's  fate 

Hung  upon  the  rain-dove's  woe. 


46  THE  RAIN-DOVE 

But  the  kindly  clouds  at  last 

Break  the  tension  of  the  hush, 
Through  the  drops  now  falling  fast 

Comes  the  music  of  the  thrush  ; 
And  the  bluebird's  heard  again 

Singing  at  his  sweetheart's  door, 
And  the  robin's  joyful  strain, 

For  the  rain-dove  mourns  no  more. 


THE   PASSING  OF   SUMMER  47 


THE    PASSING   OF   SUMMER 

HE  Summer  leads  her  children  on  ; 
The  violet  has  dropped  behind, 
But   still  the  way*  with  bloom  is 

lined ; 

A  chill,  mysterious  flower  at  dawn 
Gleams  white  a  moment  on  the  lawn. 

The  Summer  leads  her  children  on  ; 
The  little  household  on  yon  bough 
Has  lived  and  loved  and  gone,  and  now 
I  see  a  leaf  about  the  nest 
Shine  red  like  evening  in  the  West. 

The  Summer  leads  her  children  on, 
And  other  sunny  vales  make  room  ; 
The  little  bud  that  did  not  bloom, 
The  little  bird  that  did  not  sing, 
Will  never  miss  its  flower  or  wing. 


48  SEPTEMBER   TWILIGHT 


SEPTEMBER    TWILIGHT 


HE  sun  has  set  his  golden  seal 

Upon  the  world  he  left  behind, 
But  up  the  eastern  mountains  steal 
The  shadows  he  forgot  to  bind. 


The  little  birds  fly  to  their  homes  ; 

The  flowers  forget  the  hues  they  wore  ; 
A  loitering  cricket  forward  comes 

And  chants  his  mournful  measure  o'er. 

A  murmur  where  the  river  ran  ; 

A  whispering  among  the  leaves 
Of  some  misfortune  to  their  clan 

And  a  mistrust  of  autumn  eves. 

A  sudden  sense  of  secret  things, 
Of  something  brooding  in  the  air  ; 

A  slow  withdrawing — as  of  wings — 
Some  guardian  angel  called  elsewhere  ! 


MOONLIGHT   IN   THE   AUTUMN   WOOD         49 


MOONLIGHT  IN  THE  AUTUMN 
WOOD 

|T  seems   as  if  some   spirit   that  I 

knew 
Called  me  by  name,   and  gently 

led  me  where 

The  still  winds  sleep  and   blessed  moon- 
beams are  ; 

The  trees  have  lost  their  gaudy  noonday  hue, 
And  stand  like  spirit  trees  all  bathed  in  dew 
Of  moonlit  heaven  ;    while  soft  above  me 

there 

A  bird  calls  in  its  dreams,  as  though  aware 
Of  some  sweet  spell  the  night  around  it  threw. 

The   perfume   that  some  hidden  flower  sets 

free, 

The  shadowy  pictures  in  the  path  before; 
The  falling  of  a  nut  from  yonder  tree, 
The  rustling  of  strange  things  I  cannot  see, 
Make  me  forget  the  face  that  daylight  wore, 
And  love  the  tender  moonlight  fancies  more. 


50  WINGS   AND    FLIGHTS 


WINGS   AND   FLIGHTS 


HAT  rare  estates,  what  goodly  store 
Of  garnered  sheaves  the  summer 

bore, 

By  courtesy  preside  we  o'er ! 
What  woodland  beds  of  unnamed  flowers, 
What  gold,  that  mines  itself,  is  ours  ! 
To  tempt  the  soul,  what  depths  of  blue 
That  let  such  tender  shinings  through ! 

What  days  for  airy  voyaging ! 
Now  every  leaf  would  be  a  wing, 
Would  follow — though  it  may  not  sing — 
To  some  fair  land  where  Summer  goes 
To  cherish  her  immortal  rose 
And  keep  her  singing  birds  in  tune 
Until  she  hears  the  summons — June ! 


IN   OCTOBER  51 


IN  OCTOBER 

WONDER  will  they  find  it  sweet 

as  we 
Shall  Paradise  ? — these  shy  young 

birds  that  now 
For  the  first  time  have  put  to  test  their  wings, 
And  flown  beyond  the  silent  nesting-tree, 
Beyond  the  skies  that  sheltered  them  in  June, 
To  a  far  land  which  they  have  never  seen  ? 


What  faith,  what  matchless  wisdom  they  have 

shown  ! 
How  could   they  know  that  Winter  follows 

close 

Upon  such  radiant  days  and  nights  as  these  ? 
In  what  sweet  dream  was  it  revealed  to  them 
That  they  by  simply  trusting  to  their  wings 
Might  follow  the  dear  Summer  on  her  way  ? 


$2  IN   OCTOBER 


The  beckoning  branches  now  sway  back  and 

forth 

In  vain  to  tempt  the  restless  wings  to  stay  ; 
The   falling   leaves   pave   all  the    earth  with 

gold, 
But   they  are   not   deceived — these   Summer 

friends ; 

Their  hearts  have  grown  so  strong  with  con- 
fidence 

Born  of  some  inward  sight  we  cannot  know, 
That  all  the  gracious  overtures  of  earth 
At  this  rare  season  cannot  stay  their  flight. 
By  day  I  see  the  wings,  by  night  I  hear 
Soft  twitters  in  the  air,  and  know  they  still 
Are  on  their  way  ;  my  bluebird  that  I  loved 
And  that  I  saw  grow  full  of  life  and  song 
In  this  forsaken  tree  before  my  door, 
My  robin  with  the  newly  painted  breast — 
They,  too,  have  joined  the  winged  caravan, 
And  think  no  more  of  me. 


AN   AUTUMN    MORNING  53 


AN  AUTUMN    MORNING 


HE    dark    dream    curtains    of   the 
night    have    silently    been 
drawn, 
And  out  upon  our  vision  steps  the 

lady  of  the  dawn, 
Once  more  she  outlines  through  the  gloom 

where  hills  and  valleys  are — 
While  rosy  lights  steal  up  the  sky  and  pale 
each  lingering  star. 

Already   shine    the    signal    fires    upon   each 

mountain  crest, 
Already  some  new  sense  is  stirred  within  each 

waking  breast ; 
The  sunrise  miracle  is  wrought,  yet  is  it  quite 

the  same 
World   that   lay  but    yesterday  beneath   his 

golden  flame  ? 


54  AN   AUTUMN  MORNING 

Some  other  light  than  sunshine  has  touched 

each  shrub  and  tree, 
Was  it  a  dream  they  had  of  heaven  or  of  a 

heaven  to  be  ? 


The  earth  is  all  aglow  with  fires  that  burn  but 

not  consume, 
In   one    long,    fragrant    breath    the    flowers 

breathe  out  their  last  perfume  ; 
The  shy  young  birds  that  have  not  flown  sing 

soft  their  first  love  tune — 
I  doubt  if  it  will  be  more  sweet  when  they 

come  back  in  June. 
The  cricket  sentinels  tick  out  the  hour  with 

noisy  wing, 
Comes  forth  to  greet  the  morn  with  praise 

each  happy,  trustful  thing. 
It  is  the  sunset  of  the  year  that  knows  no  east 

or  west, 
O   hillsides    warm    and    tender !     O    valleys 

color-blest ! 


AFTER  THE   BALL  55 


AFTER   THE   BALL 


HE    frost   has   turned   low   all   the 

lights  on  the  lawn, 
The  halls  are  deserted  by  dryad 

and  faun ; 
The  orchestra's  ceased  and  the  singers  have 

flown, 

A  cricket  tunes  forth  a  brave  note  all  alone ; 
The  trees  are  dismantled,  their  hangings  laid 

low 
Where  the  feet  of  the  dancers  tripped  light  to 

and  fro ; 

Cinderella  was  here,  for  her  slipper  I  find, 
But  the  coach  that  she  came  in  is  wrecked  by 

the  wind ; 
And  here  is  the  pipe  that  was  played  on  by 

Pan, 

Yet  no  one  can  tell  where  the  shy  fellow  ran; 
A  shawl  of  fine  cobweb  a  spider  has  spun 
Still  hangs  in  the  loom  where  the  weaving  was 

done  ; 


56  AFTER  THE   BALL 

A  butterfly  fan  and  a  jewel  of  dew 

Were  dropped  by  a  guest  when  the  banquet 

was  through  ; 
The   perfume  of   some   lovely   blossom   now 

dead 

Is  over  the  scene  like  a  memory  shed, 
And  only  the  blue  arch  remains  over  all 
As  fair  as  it  was  on  the  eve  of  the  ball. 


A  NOVEMBER  EVENING  57 


A   NOVEMBER  EVENING 

HE  last  bird  wings  across  the  sky, 
The  sunset  clouds  in  crimson  die, 
The  daisy  bows  her  saintly  head, 
The  skies  drop  incense  o'er  the 

dead, 

The    moon   comes    forth   with    light   con- 
strained ; 

As  low  the  breeze  a  requiem  sings, 
The  sculptor  Frost  his  chisel  brings 
And  shapes  the  dewdrops  into  stones — 
White  monuments  to  mark  the  thrones 
Where  late  the  gentle  flowers  reigned. 


58  A   BELATED   BLOSSOM 


A   BELATED    BLOSSOM 

FAIR,  sweet  blossom,  latest  of  its 

kind 

To  bloom,  unfolded  in  the  au- 
tumn air, 

And  laid  its  timid  bud  and  being  bare  ; 
Then  shed  a  dewdrop  tear,  as  if  it  pined 
For  its  companions  the  unfeeling  wind 

Had  blighted  and  left  shivering,  scentless 

there. 

Thus  naught  but  desolation  was  its  share, 
For  autumn  is  not  June,  even  flowers  find. 

Alas  for  souls  ancf  flowers  that  bloom  too  late 
And  find  but  ruins  of  a  tenderer  time ! 

To  live  with  others  were  a  happier  fate  ; 
To  die  with  summer  were  a  death  sublime. 

O  Autumn,  just  one  summer  day  give  back, 

That  this  frail  thing  may  die  and  feel  no  lack ! 


A   PURSUIT  59 


A   PURSUIT 

CAUGHT  the  sound  of  tripping 

feet, 
And    followed    after,  down   the 

street ; 

The  tantalizing  footfalls  drew 
Me  on  and  on,  till  naught  I  knew 
But  that  I  must  make  good  the  chase, 
And  turn  about  that  fleeing  face. 
The  leaves  dropped  slowly  as  I  passed ; 
I  felt  a  sudden  icy  blast, 
And  heard  the  footfalls,  then,  no  more. 
The  way  she  went  soon  drifted  o'er  ; 
And  what  to  show  that  she  was  here, 
Except  these  oak  leaves  brown  and  sere 
And  yonder  empty  nest, — and  these 
Are  dead,  and  secret  as  the  breeze, 
And  only  silent  witness  bear, — 
While  she  was  all  alive  and  fair? 


60  THE  SEASON   OF  SILENCE 


THE   SEASON   OF   SILENCE 

OW   comes   the   hush   that  follows 

after  song  ; 
In   one   wild    burst   the    melody 

went  out 
From   all   the    glowing  woods   and    fields 

about, 

And    coldly  shines   the  sun   the  whole  day 
long. 

The  South  wind  doth  inspire  the  earth  no 

more ; 

The  glad,  responsive  voices  now  are  dumb  ; 
And   if,    as  guest,  a    summer   day  should 

come, 
No  smiling  band  would  open  wide  the  door. 

What  matter  if  the  sun  shines  or  the  moon  ? 

What  matter  if  the  dewdrops  turn  to  snow  ? 

The  robin  and  the  bluebird  will  not  know, 
And  the  arbutus  never  wakes  too  soon. 


A  COMPARISON  6l 


A  COMPARISON 

NOWFLAKES,    snowflakes,    what 

are  you 
When    compared   with    drops   of 

dew ! 

Never  once  did  you  repose 
In  the  heart  of  a  June  rose  ; 
Never  found  a  place  of  rest 
In  a  robin's  new-made  nest, 
Nor  held  sunbeams  in  your  breast  ; 
Never  drawn  at  midnight  hour 
By  the  perfume  of  some  flower  ; 
Never  in  a  lichen  cup 
Graced  the  board  where  fairies  sup ; 
Nor  on  cobweb  hung  a  gem, 
Nor  refreshed  a  bruised  stem  ; 
Never  in  response  to  prayer 
Did  you  drift  adown  the  air, 
Blessing  blossom,  bud  and  spear 
With  a  sympathetic  tear. 
Snowflakes,  snowflakes,  what  are  you 
When  compared  with  drops  of  dew  ! 


62  WINTER 


WINTER 

F  earth  had  always  silent  been  as 

now, 
We  should  not  know  how  sweet 

the  robin's  strain, 
Nor  feel  a  lack  till  songs  come  back  again. 
Or  if  the  white  earth  and  the  leafless  bough 
Had  felt  no  other  covering  than  the  snow, 
We  should  not  sigh  and  of  the  chill  com- 
plain, 
Nor  watch  for  the  sweet  springtime  and  the 

rain 

To  break  the  barren,  wintry  wait  below. 
If  we  had  always  known  long  nights  like  these, 
We  should  not  be  impatient  for  the  morn  ; 
Or  had  the  fragrant  rose  less  power  to  please, 
We  never  should  have  found  and  felt  its 

thorn. 

Ah,  if  the  soul  had  known  no  other  sphere, 
It  would  not  mourn  and  be  so  restless  here. 


IN   THE   MORNING  63 


IN  THE  MORNING 

HERE  were  dainty  footprints  here 

and  there, 

Dropped  in  the  snow  last  night ; 
Were  the  fairies  won  from  their 

mystic  home 
By  the  charm  of  the  pale  moonlight  ? 


No  step  was  seen  when  the  grass  was  green, 

But  the  soft  and  yielding  snow 
Has  taken  the  print  of  the  fairies'  feet, 

And  tells  where  the  fairies  go. 


There  are  fairies  in  feathers  and  fairies  in  furs, 

Some  leap  like  earthly  things, 
And  others  walk  like  a  stately  bird, 

Whose  step  has  a  hint  of  wings. 


64  IN  THE  MORNING 

Are  they  doomed  to  dwell  in  the  trees  by  day  ? 

Does  the  moonlight  set  them  free  ? 
Do  they  tell  through  the  creaking  oak  and  pine 

Of  the  sorrow  we  cannot  see  ? 


Or  are  they  the  merriest  elfin  folk 
That  ever  went  forth  in  the  night, 

Wooing  and  waltzing  through  woodland  ways 
And  tracing  the  meadows  white  ? 


No  step  was  seen  when  the  grass  was  green, 
But  the  kind  and  yielding  snow 

Takes  every  print  of  the  fairies'  feet, 
And  tells  where  the  fairies  go. 


THE   PATIENT   SEASONS  6$ 


THE  PATIENT  SEASONS 

|  OW  patiently  the  seasons  bide  their 

time ! 
No  murmur  from  the   bud   that 

months  ago 

Was  ready,  were  the  earth  inclined,  to  blow  ; 
The  birds  are  happy  in  their  chosen  clime. 

No  doubt  there  are  communings  'neath  the 

snow, 
And  some  bright  eyes  that  never  close  in 

sleep, 
And  some  quick  ears  that  listen  well  and 

keep 
Sweet  hope  alive  in  little  hearts  below. 

Then  let  the  winter  wear  itself  away, 

Borne  thither  on  the  breast  of  freighted  rills  ; 
A  dream  of  spring  has  touched  the  constant 
hills, 

And  made  the  valleys  patient  of  delay. 


66  ITALIAN   WINTER 


ITALIAN  WINTER 


N  golden  sandals  glide  the  days, 
Up  morning  beams,  down  sunset 

rays, 

So  soft  and  fleet  one  scarcely  knows 
That  it  is  winter  and  the  rose 
Is  blooming  out  of  time  and  place. 
The  clouds  move  by  with  languid  grace, 
And  gather  into  radiant  lines 
Above  the  far-off  Apennines. 
Across  the  seas  serenely  blue, 
Low  winds  are  wafted,  falling  to 
A  whisper  ere  the  night  is  through. 
And  phantom  ships  glide  o'er  the  bay 
To  phantom  isles  not  far  away, 
Where  fair  Calypso  and  her  train, 
With  feasts  and  music  still  detain 
The  hero  of  the  .^Egean  main  ; 
Historic  warriors  lead  the  dance 
With  stately  heroines  of  romance, 


ITALIAN  WINTER  6/ 

And  from  the  isles  of  Sirens  float, 
O'er  Neptune's  rough,  discordant  note, 
Enchanting  voices,  rising,  falling, 
And  to  the  dreamy  spirit  calling, 
Chiming  with  restfulness  and  ease, 
Attuned  to  tender  memories. 


In  orange  groves  the  gold  is  free, 
Here  nature  knows  no  poverty  ; 
The  earth,  responsive  to  the  calm, 
Presents  the  olive  branch  and  palm, 
And  fires  of  summer  still  burn  low 
Upon  her  broad,  green  hearth  to  show 
How  fresh  the  memory  of  their  glow. 
Indulgent  Winter  spares  his  frown, 
Bestows  his  blessing,  smiling  down 
From  snowy  heights,  on  breezy  wing, 
He  joins  the  hearts  of  Fall  and  Spring. 


68  WITH  THE   SEASONS 


WITH  THE   SEASONS 


the  Spring  of  the  year,  when  the 

tides  are  flowing, 
And  the  young  buds  swell  in  the 

soft'ning  air — 
If     the     butterfly's     out,    there    are    colors 

showing, 

If  the  bee  is  abroad,  there  are  sweets  some- 
where ! 

O  the  June  of  the  year,  with  the  gay  bells 

ringing 

From  sky  to  sky  where  the  blue  line  runs, 
When  Love  goes  over  the  green  earth  singing 
And  the  meadow  shines  with  its  own  gold 
suns. 

O   the    Fall   of   the   year,   that   rounds    the 

measure, 
And  speeds  the  birds  on  a  journey  bold, 


WITH   THE   SEASONS  69 

When  the  earth  spreads  out  all  her  summer 

treasure — 

The  spendthrift  earth  that  should  hoard  her 
gold. 

O  the  Snow  of  the  year,  with  the  grim  trees 

lifting 
Their  tawny  arms  where  the  strong  winds 

sweep, 
And   the   white,  white    billows   are    steadily 

drifting 
Over  the  earth  that  has  gone  to  sleep. 


7O  IF   LOVE  WERE   LIFE 


IF   LOVE  WERE   LIFE 


F   love  were  life  and  hearts  more 

tender  were; 
No  growing  old  or  dying  would 

there  be; 

No  eyes  from  too  much  weeping  fail  to  see  ; 
No  more  the  brow  be  the  interpreter 
Of  care  beneath,  nor  soul  a  prisoner 
Within  a  cell,  but  like  a  breath  that's  free, 
Would  spread  itself  through  all  eternity ; 
If  love  were  life  and  hearts  more  tender  were. 

It  is  not  hard  to  understand  God's  plan, 
Nor  be  submissive  when  submission's  sweet ; 

A  flower  simply  lives  to  bloom,  and  man 
Should  simply  live  to  Love,  or  else  defeat 

The  Master's  will,  which  he  has  made  so  clear, 

That  love  enough  would  make  us  angels  here. 


AFTER  THE  PLAY  71 


AFTER  THE  PLAY 

|  HAT  is  the  stage  when  the  players 

are  gone  ? — 
Better   the   curtain   were    hastily 

drawn. 

Better  the  lights  were  turned  low, 
Better  the  people  should  go, 
And  that  life  should  flow  evenly  on. 

What  can  we  read  when  the  book  has  been 
sealed  ? — 

If  to  us  once  it  has  all  been  revealed, 

And  in  it  no  longer  we've  part — 
Let  it  be  buried,  dear  Heart, 

The  earth  will  more  tenderly  shield. 


72  MOONRISE 


MOONRISE 

IKE  the  soft  step  of  one  for  whom 

we  wait, 
Whose  smile  we  feel  before  she  is 

aware, — 

Faint  lines  of  light  the  moon's  first  greet- 
ings bear ; 

While  she  doth  seem  to  linger  at  night's  gate 
As  if  to  chide  herself  for  being  late  ; 

Then  bursts  upon  us  with  a  conscious  air, 
And  all  the  earth   stands  still  to  welcome 

there 
Our  Lady  of  the  Skies  in  silver  state ! 


LIFE  73 


LIFE 

O  see,  to  hear,  to  feel,  to  love,  to 

pray,— 
Aye,  to  have  known  all  these,  and 

then  to  die, 

And  to  remember  still  the  days  gone  by. 
I  wonder  that  the  unused,  unblest  clay 
Does  not  rise  up  in  one  bold  mass  and  say  : 
"Breathe  on  this  dust   the  breath  of  life, 

and  I 

A  million,  million  years  content  will  lie — 
To  feel  the  sunshine  but  for  one  brief  day ! 
To  hear  of  all  the  music  one  sweet  strain  ! 
To  feel  the  thrill  of  being  in  me  bound ! 
Then   let  the  clouds  and   night   come  back 

again;— 
I've  seen  the  sunshine  and  I've  heard  the 

sound 

Of  music,  and  no  death  or  grave's  so  deep 
But  I  shall  feel  the  sunshine  in  my  sleep ! " 


74  TO   LOVE 


TO  LOVE 

O  love  is  to  have  touched  a  spring 
That  doth  respond  in  everything  ; 
And  all  the  secrets  are  revealed 
Of  brook  and  bird  and  wood  and 

field— 

The  brook  that  runs  a  merry  race, 
The  bird  that  fills  a  lonely  space 
With  song,  the  tender  autumn  wood 
Soft  swelling  with  a  golden  flood, 
The  field  to  which  a  deep  content 
The  glory  of  the  harvest  lent — 
As  if  my  own  glad  heart  to  prove, 
All  sing  of  love,  all  sing  of  love. 

To  love  is  to  know  all  that's  pure 

And  good  and  fair,  maybe  endure 

Some  sorrow  that  makes  love  more  sure ; 

Nor  evil  nor  temptation  see, 

Nor  weakness — save  through  sympathy  ; — 


TO   LOVE  75 


To  be  so  glad  for  being  here 
It  maketh  all  life's  mystery  clear  ; — 
And  hearts  were  made,  it  seemeth  plain, 
For  something  more  than  suffer  pain, — 
For  something  sweeter  than  the  rose, 
Or  anything  that  loves  not,  knows. 


76  SLUMBER  SONG 


SLUMBER  SONG 

O,    pretty    lady-bird,    this   way   to 

slumber  land ! 
Here  is  a  carrriage  all  lined  with 

soft  down  ; 
Just  close  youreyes  a  bit,  then  by  some  fairy's 

wand 
You  will  be  wafted  afar  from  the  town — 

Unto  a  country  where  only  the  dreamers  go, 
Where  all  the  streets  are  just  poppy-lined 

lanes ; 
There  you  will  meet  the  strange  folk  little 

sleepers  know — 

Black    bats    and   witches   that   walk  with 
queer  canes. 

You  are  a  princess  and  they  must  your  bid- 
ding do, 

Bowing   and    bending    on   wings    and    on 
knees — 


SLUMBER   SONG  77 

When  you're  awake  you  might  look  the  whole 

city  through 

And  find  no  one  like  them  so  anxious  to 
please. 

There,  little   princess-girl,  here   is   the   turn 

and  the 

Night  is  so  short  you  must  hasten  away  ; 
Tell  what   you've   seen   when   at   morn   you 

come  back  to  me 

And  just  see  how  funny  'twill  all  look  by 
day. 


7 8  MY   MOTHER 


MY  MOTHER 

OME  one  I  love  comes  back  to  me 
With  every  gentle  face  I  see  ; — 
Beneath  each  wave  of  soft  gray 

hair 

I  see  my  own  dear  mother  there  ; 
With  every  kindly  glance  and  word 
It  seems  as  if  I  must  have  heard 
Her  speak,  and  felt  her  tender  gaze 
With  all  the  love  of  olden  days. 
Then  I  am  moved  to  take  her  hand, 
And  tell  her  now  I  understand 
How  tired  she  grew  beneath  the  strain 
Of  feeling  every  loved  one's  pain  ; 
No  further  burdens  could  she  bear, 
The  promise  of  that  land  more  fair 

Alone  could  tempt  her  from  her  child ; 
And  now  if  I  could  keep  her  here, 
No  sacrifice  would  be  too  dear, 

No  tempered  winds  for  her  too  mild  ; 


MY   MOTHER  79 


Then  I  would  smooth  and  kiss  her  face 
And  by  her  side  take  my  old  place 

And  sob  my  years  and  cares  away. 
I  think  if  I  could  feel  her  touch 
Once  more,  it  would  not  matter  much 

How  sunny  or  how  dark  the  day  ; 
The  tears  I  have  so  long  repressed 
Would  lose  their  ache  upon  her  breast. 

I  love  each  mother  that  I  see 
That  brings  my  own  so  near  to  me  ; 
For  though  I  never  more  may  frame 
Upon  my  lips  that  hallowed  name 
To  any  who  will  draw  me  near 

And  answer  me  with  warm  caress, — 
As  long  as  there  are  mothers  here, 

No  child  can  be  quite  motherless. 


80  THE   SUSQUEHANNA 


THE  SUSQUEHANNA 

EMMED  in  by  hills  whose  forests 

hold  the  dew  ; 

Lake-born,  and  fed  by  many  mur- 
murous streams 
That    have   the   fairest    fancies    for    their 

themes, 

That  tell  the  river  how  they  rippled  through 
The  rocky  highlands  where  the  mosses  grew, — 
How  ferns  and  lichens,  peeping  through  the 

seams 
Of  rocks,   swayed  soft  as  in  mid-summer 

dreams, 
And  birds  trilled  every  joyous  air  they  knew. 

The  river  knows  the  secrets  of  the  hills, 

And  learns  from  happy  fields  as  it  goes  by 
The  sweetness  of  contentment ;  and  it  fills 

The  little  valley  with  another  sky 
Where  birds  fly  back  and  forth — till  evening 

wills 

To  set  some  stars  there  and  the  moonbeams 
shy. 


I   LOVE  YOU 


8l 


I  LOVE  YOU 


LOVE  you — not  because  you  love 

me  well, 
Nor  for  the  sweet  words  that  your 

lips  may  tell, 

Nor  for  the  love-light  shining  in  your  eyes, 
Nor  for  the  strength  that  in  your  manhood  lies, 
Not  even  for  the  heart  that  is  so  true — 
I  love  you  just  because,  dear,  you  are  you  ! 


82  IMMORTAL 


IMMORTAL 


*&3ilURNS'     "  crimson  -  tipped   flower" 

grows 
With  Tennyson's  forget-me-nots, 

As  fair  as  long  ago  they  rose 
In  their  memorial  spots. 

The  "  violet  by  a  mossy  stone  " 

Blooms  there,  untended,  every  year  ; 

In  twilight  skies  still  shines  the  one 
Fair  star  to  Wordsworth  dear. 

The  "  primrose  by  the  river's  brim  " 
Has  seen  its  golden  image  oft ; 

And  Shelley's  skylark  sings  for  him 
As  still  it  soars  aloft. 

Full  many  a  flower  "  has  blushed  unseen 
Since  Gray  sang  solemnly  and  low ; 

With  wild  thyme  many  a  bank  is  green. 
Though  Shakespeare  may  not  know. 


IMMORTAL  83 


No  painter's  hand  the  lily  shows — 
It  needs  no  kinder  touch  than  rain 

To  make  it  "  blossom  as  the  rose  " 
That  grew  on  Sharon's  plain. 

Still  sound  the  harp  and  twinkling  feet 
In  Tara's  many-storied  rooms, 

And  for  remembrance'  sake  the  sweet 
Rosemary  always  blooms. 

Soft  falls  the  noise  of  hidden  brooks, 
And  still  is  faithful  the  "one  moon," 

And  every  rose  is  shut  and  looks 
"  A  bud  again  "  in  June. 


84  IN   THE  HOME  COUNTRY 


IN   THE   HOME   COUNTRY 

OW  I  would  see  my  girlhood  haunts 

by  night, 
Although  I  miss  the  beauty  of  the 

hills, 

The  silver  of  the  river,  and  the  trills 
Of    birds    among    the    trees    and    meadows 
bright. 

Up  the  familiar  street  I  go  once  more, 
And  in  the  starlight  see  no  changes  there  ; 
The  same  old  friends  for  whom  I  used  to 
care 

If  I  should  knock  would  greet  me  at  the  door. 

A    shining   welcome   through    each   window 

streams ; 

No  more  a  stranger  in  my  own  home  land, 
But  one  with  them.    Ah,  now  I  understand, 
I  have  just  wakened  from  some  strange,  sad 
dreams. 


IN   THE  HOME  COUNTRY  85 

And  home  again.      How  sweet  it  is !      She 

knew 

My  footsteps  from  afar.     A  sudden  fear 
Now  chills  my  heart  lest  she  should  not  be 

here — 

I  dare  not  knock  for  fear  those  dreams  are 
true. 


86  STARS   IN   THE   WELL 


STARS    IN   THE   WELL 

Y    memory-clock    I    turn    a    little 

back  ; 
The   hands  I'll  move  somewhere 

to  morning-time  ; 
A  little  maid,  in  dainty  hood  and  sack, 
Comes  forth  in  answer  to  its  silver  chime. 

She  pauses  in  the  doorway  half  a  thought, 
Then  dances  down  the  steps  out  toward  the 
well; 

A  pause  again — a  wonder  if  she  ought 

To  lift  the  lid  from  where  the  fairies  dwell  ? 

It  is  so  dark  and  deep  down  there,  it  would 
Be    nice   if  they   might    run   outside   and 
play— 

And  she  would  be  quite  generous  and  good 
And  let  the  little  fairies  have  their  way  ; 


STARS  IN  THE  WELL  87 

And  had  not  brother  said  that  they  were  there? 

And  ought   he  not  to   know  ?    Then  she 

forgot 
That  mamma  told  her  she  must  have  a  care, 

And  never  go  alone  too  near  that  spot. 

But  there  the  boards  lay  loose  invitingly, 
As  if  they  really  wanted  to  be  raised  ; 

And  when  they  saw  a  friend  had  set  them  free, 
Oh,  would  not  then  the  fairies  be  amazed ! 

Her  little  hands  the  boards  quick  turn  aside, 
Her  little  face  peers  in  to  break  the  spell, 

She  sees  no  prisoned  fairies  forward  glide, 
She  sees  the  stars  a- shining  in  the  well ! 

The  well  is  dry  ;  the  little  maid  grown  up  ; 

The  stars  long  since  gone  back  into  the  sky  ; 
The  fairies  come  no  more  with  her  to  sup, 

The  acorns  on  the  ground  unheeded  lie  ; 

But  I  am  sure  she  wishes  oft  again 

That  she  might  all  these  later  dreams  dispel, 

And  look  for  fairies,  and  be  glad  as  when 
She  saw  the  stars  a-shining  in  the  well. 


88  PROMISES 


PROMISES 

SHUDDER  at  a  promise  I  have 

made, 
Which  I  know  now  I  never  can 

fulfill, 

Because  another  promise  haunts  me  still ; 
Though  he  to  whom  'twas  given  has  been  laid 
Where  I  but  rarely  visit,  half  afraid 

That  I  might  still  be  moved  by  his  mute 

will. 

Old  promises  are  easy  kept  until 
A  living  new  one  doth  our  hearts  persuade. 

Why,  then,  through  all  the  glamor  of  the  new, 
Come  back  this  wistful  longing  and  regret  ? 

Why,  when  so  sweet  this  later  love — the  true, 
The  tried  and  lost  are  hardest  to  forget  ? 

O  God,  forgive,  my  restless  heart  subdue ! 
Somewhere  he  lives  and  loves  and  waiteth 
yet. 


A   LOVE   SONG  89 


A   LOVE   SONG 

F  you  have  seen  the  darkness 

Unclose  its  lashes  deep, 
That    heaven's   blue   eyes   might 
open 


Afresh  from  evening's  sleep  ; 
If  you  have  seen  at  twilight 

One  single  little  star 
Come  softly  through  the  azure 

And  shine  for  you  afar, 


Then  you  have  seen  the  curtains 

That  shade  my  lady's  eyes, 
And  keep  the  blue  from  losing 

That  look  of  glad  surprise 
Which  came  to  them  with  loving  ; 

And  you  can  surely  see 
That  she  came  down  from  heaven 

And  shines  alone  for  me. 


90  A   LOVE  SONG 

The  flowers  bloom  around  her, 

The  birds  come  at  her  call, 
Yet  she's  the  sweetest  blossom 

And  singer  of  them  all. 
If  I  be  worthy  of  her 

I  know  not,  but  I  feel 
Between  me  and  all  evil 

Her  gentle  spirit  steal. 


And  I  half  fear  some  morning 

That  I  shall  look  for  her, 
And  only  find  the  dewdrops 

Where  once  her  white  feet  were  ; 
And  one  pale,  perfect  lily 

Where  once  was  her  sweet  face, 
And  a  white  stone  which  sorrow 

Has  set  to  mark  the  place. 


THREE   MINISTERING  ANGELS  pi 


THREE   MINISTERING  ANGELS 


HREE  ministering  angels  went 

To  a  sad  soul  with  sympathy ; 
One  mortal  fool,  with  good  intent, 
Undid  the  work  of  all  the  three. 


92  BEAUTY 


BEAUTY 

HE  maketh  for  herself  a  paradise, 
A  paradise  in  which  she  dwells 

alone, 

For  every  common  thing  is  alien  in 
Her  land.  Her's  is  a  wild,  uncultured  state, 
But  needs  no  hand  to  train  it. 

Stay  the  brook, — 

It  stops  its  song  and  dark  and  sullen  grows. 
Lower  the  forest  and  bare  rocks  come  forth 
And  streamlets  seek  seclusion  underground. 
Break  thee  a  flower,  and  it  gives  but  one 
Low,  perfumed  sigh,  and  dies.     Cage  thee  a 

bird, 

And  canst  thou  then  be  sure  thou  hast  the 
song? 

The  only  law  that  beauty  knows,  obeys, 
Is  that  of  freedom  for  her  own  sweet  will. 
A  cloud  is  seen  upon  her  skies,  and  straight 
The  wind  doth  rise  to  scatter  it  afar. 


BEAUTY  93 


The  bough  is  bent,  but  beauty  hastes  to  clothe 
It  with  the  lines  of  grace  she  knows  so  well. 
She  looks  for  favor,  but  in  her  own  eyes  ; 
Yet  shapes  herself  to  every  season's  mood  ; 
For  she  is  one  with  Winter,  Summer,  Spring, 
And  Autumn's  smiles  she  doth  most  revel  in. 
Those  of  our  own  who  are  akin  to  her, 
Are  little  children — sometimes  those  who  still 
Keep  childish  spirits  under  their  white  hair. 

But  all  who  would  know  beauty  at  her  best 
Should  wait  till  even-fall,  and  look  not  down 
Upon  the  flowers  from  which  the  color's  flown, 
But  up  where  beauty  takes  at  eve  her  flight, 
Up  where  the  silver,  half-ringed  moon  glides 

on 

Securely  in  her  path  amid  the  blue, 
Up  where  the  planets  still  reflect  the  day 
We  saw  go  down  behind  the  western  hills. 


94  THE  COUNTRY  OF   FARAWAY 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  FARAWAY 

HE  beautiful  country  of  Faraway ! 
O,  sail  I  eastward  or  sail  I  west, 
My  good  ship  rides  in  no  peace- 
ful bay, 
And  anchors  not  by  the  Isle  of  Rest ! 

The  beautiful  country  of  Faraway ! 

Tell  me,  stranger,  from  whence  you  hail ! — 
Have  you  seen  that  land  where  my  loved  ones 
stay, 

And  can  I  reach  it  by  foot  or  sail  ? 

The  beautiful  country  of  Faraway ! 

O  this  the  answer  my  question  brings : 
"  Lower  your  sails  and  wait  and  pray, 

That  country  is  only  reached  with  wings !  " 


VENICE  95 


VENICE 

OFTLY  falls  the  rhythmic  beat 
Of  the  water's  unseen  feet, 
Pausing  at  each  palace  door, 
Rocking  little  boats  before, 
Going  out  to  meet  the  tide, 
With  the  greetings  of  the  Bride. 

Song-wings  at  each  casement  beat ; 

Throbs  the  air  with  languorous  heat ; 

Veronese  and  Titian  tints 

Where  the  sunlight  dips  and  glints  ; 

Idle  drifts  and  moorings  made 

In  the  green,  caressing  shade. 

Down  blue  lanes  by  arches  spanned, 
Slim,  black  floats  their  burdens  land 
At  some  roving  Doge's  door, 
Then  pass  on  with  listless  oar. 
Suddenly  a  shining  prow 
Glides  across  another  bow — 


96  VENICE 


With  a  gay  salute  they  meet, 
Voyaging  on  the  shimmering  street  J 

From  its  footing  in  the  walls 
Up  the  eager  ivy  crawls 
To  some  balcony  or  stair, 
Hanging  gardens  in  the  air. 
Where  two  grains  of  sand  are  met, 
There  some  tender  shrub  has  set 
Up  a  temple  green  to  song 
That  will  not  be  vacant  long. 

In  San  Marco's  sunny  square 
Pilgrim  doves  ask  alms  and  care, 
And  the  lion,  crouched  and  dumb, 
Looking  toward  Byzantium, 
Scans  the  Adriatic's  blue 
For  the  ships  long  overdue. 

Loath  the  sun  his  anchor  weighs, 
Sailing  westward  through  the  haze, 
Leaving  to  the  moon  to  touch, 
With  her  silver  brushes,  such 
Mystic  outlines  as  she  will, 
Making  beauty  fairer  still. 


ON  THE  HEIGHTS  97 


ON  THE  HEIGHTS 

ACH  heart  has  heights  that  few  can 

ever  reach, 
Made  solitary  thus  for  love's  sweet 

sake  ; 

To  reach  the  summit  of  her  heart  I  take 
My  alpenstock  of  smiles  and  gentle  speech. 

I've  crossed  the  vale  where  only  friendships 

dwell. 
(How  good  she  is !)     Above  me,  white  and 

fair, 

I  see  the  edelweiss  of  trust  bloom  there, 
And  flowers  of  which  no  traveler  may  tell. 

A  sudden  avalanche  of  joy  sweeps  past, 
And  I  am  not  destroyed !     Then  may  not  I, 
By  long  persistence  mounting  toward  the 
sky, 

Look  from  the  heaven  of  her  heart  at  last  ? 


98  INFLUENCE 


INFLUENCE 

NOTE  so  low  that  none  but  Echo 

heard, 
Was  sung  into  the   world   one 

summer  day ; 

The  singer  died, — the  song  went  on  its  way 
At  first  as  faint  as  call  of  sleeping  bird, 
While  Echo  carried  it  in  rhythmic  word 
From  rock  to  rock,  until  it  went  astray 
Into  the  outer  space  where  Freedom  lay, 
And  all  the  world  then  listened  and  was  stirred. 

And  none  could  name  or  trace  its  humble  birth, 
Not  even  Echo,  who  had  simply  known 

It  as  a  broken  note  of  little  worth  ; — 

So  many  voices  now  had  swelled  the  tone, 

It  floated  far  beyond  the  bounds  of  earth 
And  blended  with    the   songs  around  the 
Throne. 


OF  LOVE  99 


OF  LOVE 

F  you  should  miss  some  color  rare, 

Some  light  from  out  the  sky, 
My  joyous  soul    could    tell   you 

where 
These  hidden  treasures  lie. 


Love  gathered  all  the  brightness  here 
And  placed  it  in  my  heart, 

I  only  wonder  how  the  year 
Could  spare  so  large  a  part. 

So  glad  an   I — no  clouds  I  see, 

Only  the  light  beyond, 
And  know  not  if  there  darkness  be 

For  hearts  less  blest  and  fond. 

Ah,  love  !  the  tender  magic  word 

Has  set  my  heart  in  tune, 
Content  and  happy  as  a  bird 

On  her  four  eggs  in  June. 


100  MORNING 


MORNING 


HH     FEEL  that  every  dewdrop  has  a 

tone 
And  sings  for  ears  more  sensitive 

than  mine, 
While  all    the  flowers  their  modest   heads 

incline, 

And  list  in  fragrant  reverence.     Alone 
And  mute  I  stand  before  the  Morning's  throne. 
The   birds   have   speech,   the    breeze,   the 

rhythmic  pine, 

Each  brings  its  offering  glad  unto  the  shrine 
Of  the  fair  one,  and  only  I  bring  none. 

Yet,  as  I  feel  her  breath  upon  my  cheek, 
And  know  there  are  sweet  sounds  I  cannot 

hear, 
And  languages  I  know  not  how  to  speak, 

Around  me  in  the  dreamy  atmosphere, — 
For  what  I've  not  I  neither  ask  nor  seek, 
And  what  I  have  seems  every  morn  more 
dear. 


ONLY  THE   FEW  IOI 


ONLY  THE  FEW 


HERE  are  many  birds  in  the  nests 

in  spring, 
There  are  many  buds  that  a  promise 

give, 

There  are  many  songs  that  the  poets  sing, 
But  only  the  few  will  live. 

There  are  many  children  to  laugh  and  play, 
And  many  battles  for  youth  to  fight, 

And  many  brave  on  through  the  heat  of  day, 
But  only  the  few  till  night. 

There  are  many  hearts  in  this  world  to  beat, 
And  many  eyes  to  see  wondrous  things, 

And  many  ears  to  hear  music  sweet, 
But  only  the  few  have  wings. 


102  MY   LITTLE  LADY 


MY  LITTLE  LADY 

KNOW  a  little  lady, 

So  young  and  sweet  and  shy, 
She  blushes  like  the  roses, 

When  a  sunbeam  dances  by. 


She  trembles  at  a  rude  wind, 

Is  full  of  fancied  fears  ; 
It  seems  as  if  I'd  happened 

On  a  violet  in  tears. 

But  a  smile  her  tears  will  banish, 
And  her  skies  be  blue  again, 

For  she  knows  no  more  of  sorrow 
Than  a  violet  of  pain. 

She  is  so  pure  and  gentle, 

Could  I  reach  the  spring  on  high, 
I  would^drink  to  her  in  starshine 

From  the  dipper  in  the  sky. 


BELLS  RING  NEVER  TWICE  THE  SAME      103 


BELLS    RING   NEVER   TWICE   THE 
SAME 

O  not  think  that  yonder  bell, 

Hung  responsive  in  the  tower, 
Minds  not  whether  funeral  knell 

Or  a  happy  marriage  hour 
It  shall  next  with  peal  proclaim — 
Bells  ring  never  twice  the  same. 

Never  twice  the  same  bud  blows, 
Though  the  plant  may  blossom  oft ; 

When  the  wind  dies  no  one  knows 
If  it  sinks  or  soars  aloft — 

Or  if  yet  the  new  breeze  may 

Be  the  breath  of  yesterday. 

Yonder  grow  the  apple  trees, 

One  blooms  pink  and  one  blooms  white; 
There  in  May  the  honey-bees 

Hum  a  chorus  of  delight ; 


104      BELLS   RING  NEVER  TWICE  THE  SAME 

But  no  bees  one  sees  or  hears 
On  the  blossoms  of  past  years. 

Yet,  when  youth  departs,  we  dream 

We  can  find  it,  and  we  go 
Searching  up  and  down  the  stream, 

By  the  paths  we  used  to  know, 
Through  the  meadow,  up  the  hill — 
Our  lost  youth  evades  us  still. 

Breezes  come  to  greet  each  day, 

Bells  ring  glad  and  mournful  strains, 

Apple  trees  bloom  still  in  May — 
Only  this  sad  fact  remains  ; 

Our  lost  youth,  its  flowers,  its  chimes, 

Were  the  sweets  of  other  times. 


THE   MOTHER-POET  105 


THE  MOTHER-POET 

Y  mother  was  a  poet ! 

And,  though  she  left  no  song 
To  ripple  down  the  centuries 
And  cheer  the  world  along, 


Her  soul  was  full  of  music ; 

Her  thought  was  set  to  rhyme 
Of  little  feet,  that  kept  her  heart 

A-singing  all  the  time. 

Her  life  was  one  long  measure 
Of  kind,  unselfish  deeds  ; 

(So  common  is  the  doing 

One  scarcely  knows  or  heeds.) 

She  gave  herself  so  freely, 
Thought  had  she  for  us  all, 

And  time  to  note  each  flower, 
And  the  first  bluebird's  call. 


106  THE   MOTHER-POET 

A  singer  who  sings  truly 
Must  often  sing  of  pain, 

Yet  hope  rose  through  her  sorrow 
As  rainbows  through  the  rain. 

O  what  a  wondrous  poem 
Is  mother  duty  done  ! 

My  mother  was  a  poet ! — 
I'm  sure  that  yours  was  one. 


HUMAN   NATURE  IO/ 


HUMAN  NATURE 


F  life  were  not  so  sad  a  thing, 

Who,  then,  would  think  of  be- 
ing merry! 

If  God's  will  would  bear  altering, 
His  plans  we  should  not  try  to  vary ! — 
Were  we  once  free  from  pain  and  care, 
We  straight  would  seek  some  cross  to  bear ! 

If  upon  love  a  seal  were  set, 

How  many  seals  would  then  be  broken  ! 
If  gentle  speech  were  hard  to  get, 

How  many  kind  words  would  be  spoken ! — 
If  Heaven  were  once  denied  us  all, 
How  we  should  then  to  Heaven  call ! 


108  MY    LITTLE   NEIGHBOR 


MY   LITTLE   NEIGHBOR 


Y  little  neighbor's  table's  set, 

And  slyly  he  comes  down  the 

tree, 

His  feet  firm  in  each  tiny  fret 
The  bark  has  fashioned  cunningly. 

He  pauses  on  a  favorite  knot ; 

Beneath  the  oak  his  feast  is  spread, 
He  asks  no  friend  to  share  his  lot, 

Or  dine  with  him  on  acorn  bread. 

He  keeps  his  whiskers  trim  and  neat, 
His  tail  with  care  he  brushes  through  ; 

He  runs  about  on  all  four  feet — 
When  dining  he  sits  up  on  two. 

He  has  the  latest  stripe  in  furs, 

And  wears  them  all  the  year  around  ; 

He  does  not  mind  the  prick  of  burs 
When  there  are  chestnuts  to  be  found. 


MY   LITTLE   NEIGHBOR  109 

I  watch  his  home  and  guard  his  store, 

A  cozy  hollow  in  a  tree  ; 
He  often  sits  within  his  door 

And  chatters  wondrous  things  to  me. 


110  ON   THE   MOUNTAIN 


ON   THE   MOUNTAIN 

[LL   else   lies    far  beneath    me,    or 

above, 

And  I,  between  two  worlds,  un- 
certain stand ; 

With  eyes  uplifted  to  a  vision  grand, 
Yet  without  power  to  soar  or  upward  move. 
The  steps  to  heaven  are  builded  of  our  love, 
And  mine,  alas,  so  timid  on  the  land, 
Could  never  find  the  way  without  His  hand. 
Naught  have  I  in  my  heart  by  which  to  prove 
My  right  to  something  I've  not  found  below — 
Except  this  constant,  strong  desire  to  rise  ; 
It  seems  so  strange  the  higher  up  we  go — 
The   farther  from  earth's    sinful,  suffering 

cries, 

That  our  unworthiness  should  haunt  us  so, 
And  wreck  us  at  the  gate  of  Paradise. 


YB   135418 


514870 


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